


wouldn’t mind

by onceuponamoon



Series: abo jt/ebs [14]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Heart-to-Heart, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 16:19:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15004670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamoon/pseuds/onceuponamoon
Summary: It’s not completely unusual for Jordan to go hours at a time without hearing from John.





	wouldn’t mind

**Author's Note:**

> y'allllllll, i've gotten some serious love for this series lately and i just want to say thank you. your comments, kudos, and messages mean the world to me!!!
> 
> as always, feel free to send me messages, questions, comments, or prompts on [tumblr](http:onceuponamoonfic.tumblr.com)

**November 2017**

 

It’s not completely unusual for Jordan to go hours at a time without hearing from John.

In fact, if Jordan’s not the one to text first, John typically won’t make a peep unless he’s seen a response from Jordan in one of the group chats. 

When Jordan had asked him about it initially, John had said something along the lines of, “But I don’t want to wake you up if you’re asleep,” which Jordan found equal parts adorably considerate and mildly frustrating. So, Jordan had said, “If it were you, then I wouldn’t mind being woken up,” and John had gone pink in the cheeks and avoided eye contact for nearly half an hour on the bikes during cooldown. 

Since then, John’s been a little better about it, sending the occasional, “ _Good morning_ ,” text a full two hours before Jordan’s ready to be a human, still dead to the world when it’s dark out. He’ll text after practice sometimes, asking if Jordan wants to come over for snacks and a movie or if he wants to do some stickhandling on the synthetic rink out back. 

Jordan jumps on it, every chance, heart fluttering at the thrill of John seeking him out, John _choosing_ him.

So. Not hearing from John at all for hours on end after a morning meeting and practice?

That has Jordan a little frustrated, a little worried.

And it’s -- it’s not like they’d made plans to spend the rest of their day together or anything, but Jordan’s a little antsy after his post-practice nap and catches himself growling and pacing more than a couple of times as the afternoon wears on into evening.

He’s texted, like. Maybe four times. Meaningless little things and then one that expressed concern. Called once. Which is probably overkill, but John’s phone had eventually gone to voicemail which means he’s either left it somewhere or is, Jordan doesn’t know, _dead in a ditch somewhere_. 

Jordan’s up on his feet and growling at nothing, pacing and baring his teeth just at the thought.

Which, okay. He’s at the point where he’s feeling possessive and kind of gross about it, but the worry is what kicks his ass in gear, just to see if like. John’s car is in the driveway, at the very least.

He grabs his wallet, his phone, his keys, and then heads out the door. It’s really only a five minute drive to get to John’s place, and Jordan definitely could’ve walked it, but --

With the way his hands tremble on the steering wheel, the way his heart’s pounding loudly in his ears --

Jordan pulls up at John’s gate, enters the code, and -- sure enough, there’s John’s truck, sitting in the driveway. He can scent that there’s no other alpha on the property -- which he _knows_ is irrational, thanks -- so Jordan lets himself in using the code to the garage, softly shutting the door behind himself as he enters through the laundry room. His heart’s pounding, still feeling a little on-edge with worry, but when he scents the air, it’s just John and a few hints of himself, the heat and rut they’d shared the week before and forgot to air out.

Except...as Jordan winds closer towards the stairs, John smells a little off.

He’s growling softly, pausing on the middle-landing before he continues on up the stairs and down the hall towards the master bedroom where --

John’s asleep, fully-clothed, pink-cheeked and snoring, splayed out on his back on the foot of the bed.

It looks a little bit like he’d bent down to take off his shoes and then decided that that was too much, laid back, and immediately passed out. Which -- Jordan gets it, because sometimes he’s close to doing exactly the same thing, but there’s still that hint of locker-room scentless soap on his skin. And if that’s the case, then he probably passed out _hours_ ago. John always showers when he gets home.

John stirs as Jordan nears, and his eyebrows furrow when Jordan says, “Babe?”

His scent goes more cinnamon than saffron and then John’s shifting a little, peeking his eyes open and graveling out, “Jordan,” before he rubs at them with the heels of his hands. “What time ‘s it?”

Jordan’s worry only grows when he hears the odd muffle to John’s words, the softness around the consonants and nasally vowels. “After six,” Jordan answers, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. He reaches out, testing John’s forehead with the back of his palm for a fever. “You sound bad, baby.” 

John stretches and yawns; a few pillows fall out from their messy arrangement and John just half-heartedly shoves them back into place. “In the morning? I’m not late,” he says.

Heart clenching, Jordan says, “No, sweetheart, it’s -- it’s still Wednesday. You --” He cuts himself off to quell the worried growl that’s welling up in his chest. “You sounded fine this morning. Why didn’t you skip practice if you were getting sick?”

Finally, John starts to sit upright, leaning into Jordan’s shoulder. “Didn’t know I was,” he says. His forehead’s hot when it lands on Jordan’s collarbone. “I didn’t feel bad this morning.”

Jordan frowns.

John says, “This happens, sometimes. Comes on real fast and then I’m sick for a day and then I’ll start feeling better.” All of his T’s and N’s sound like D’s. He stretches again, wincing. “Fuck.”

“ _Babe_.”

John’s nose wrinkles at the endearment, but his scent gets sweeter and he nuzzles into Jordan’s neck as Jordan wraps an arm around him, presses a kiss to his temple. “I’ll be fine, alpha,” John says. It’s a little less reassuring when he follows that up with a sneeze that sounds a little bit like death-metal. “Just gotta let it run its course. I’ll be fine for the game on Saturday.”

Jordan doesn’t realize he’s growling until John reiterates, “I’ll be _fine_ ,” and then Jordan’s apologizing, because -- what the fuck, he’s not doubting John. If John says he’ll be fine, then he’ll be fine. He just. Wants him to be fine now, is all.

“You hungry?” Jordan asks softly.

Sniffing, John nods and accepts Jordan’s hand up when it’s offered. He shuffles, holding himself stiffly which Jordan thinks is more from the sickness than from napping fully-clothed, but when Jordan asks if he wants any pain meds, John just waves a hand. They manage to make it to the living room before John seemingly gives up, plops himself on the sectional with a soft, “Can you make me some soup?”

And, god, he doesn’t even have to ask.

Jordan’s gonna take such good care of him.

Jordan leans in, presses a kiss to John’s sleep-matted hair and says, “I’ll bring you some tissues, too,” because John keeps sniffling intermittently. 

It’s easy to busy himself in John’s kitchen, making himself at home the way he has during their heats. He makes tomato soup, adds more cayenne pepper than he could ever stand, a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches, and nabs a Gatorade from the fridge while he’s at it. John’s tugged an afghan half over him and slumped onto his side, but he’s only a little glassy-eyed when Jordan brings him the food.

“Thanks,” he gravels out.

“I--” Jordan says when John tries to reach out. And, like. At least he didn’t growl, but he still feels a little pink in the cheeks, embarrassed at all the instincts seeing his omega sick is wrenching out of him. “I wanna take care of you.” 

John’s expression softens.

“Please? Like. Feel free to say no, of course, but,” Jordan says, “I think it’d be nice.” 

He nods, the softest of grins playing at the edges of his lips.

They’ve never done the whole hand-feeding thing outside of heat, but -- Jordan’s chest flutters when John struggles all the way upright so that Jordan has a place tucked into the corner of the couch. Maybe it’s because John’s sick and doesn’t have the energy to argue -- or maybe it’s because this is a special kind of thing that Jordan doesn’t insist on and John doesn’t ask for, but -- Jordan feels....honored, in a way.

He sits, waits for John to get himself situated exactly the way he wants -- which is half-straddling Jordan, leaning against his shoulder and the back of the couch.

“That...doesn’t look comfortable,” Jordan says.

John makes a huffy noise, then sniffles. “You here to feed me or criticize me?”

Jordan laughs, says, “Sorry, sorry.”

There’s a spoon in the bowl, but John’s more interested in having Jordan using the soup as a dipping sauce for his grilled cheese. He makes a tiny, pleased sound in the back of his throat when he tastes the soup and Jordan’s whole chest warms, pride spreading through his entire being at having provided for his omega. It’s a little dumb just how much he likes hand-feeding John, but figures that instincts are instincts for a reason, and the pleased little trill John lets out has him rumbling out a satisfied growl before he can stop himself.

Jordan’s hungry too by the time John’s finished eating, listing more into Jordan’s chest than the couch. As much as it pains him to separate when John’s all cuddly and fever-warm, Jordan pats at his hip and says, “Up, baby, I need to clean this up and grab something to eat.”

John just sniffles in response and gives a hazy-eyed nod, slowly climbing off of Jordan’s lap. He snuggles into the warm spot and, before going to the kitchen, Jordan tucks the afghan around him a little more securely.

By the time he’s back with a sandwich of his own and a protein shake from the fridge, John’s conked out, nothing more than half his face and a tuft of hair sticking out from beneath the blanket. Jordan’s throat constricts.

And he --

He knows he doesn’t have to be here, taking care of John, but Jordan _wants_ to and he wants John to want him to right back.

He doesn’t want to be one of those pushy alphas that had John running in the opposite direction. He wants to stop fretting, wants to know exactly where the line is for John so that he can stay well and truly far away from it. 

Jordan eats his sandwich in silence, content enough to leave the empty plate on the coffee table, to play sentry while John naps on. He watches the muted news, then a muted episode of _Black Mirror_ , then a muted nature documentary because _Black Mirror_ ’s just not the same without audio. And by then it’s late evening, John’s still asleep, and Jordan’s more than a little worried that this might not be “just” a cold. 

John shifts, stretching, nudges his feet into Jordan’s thigh.

“Ugh,” John says, shoving the blanket off and pulling at his shirt to bare his stomach. He’s frowning. “Time ‘s it?”

“Almost nine,” Jordan answers. “Get too hot?”

Nodding, John shifts around until the blanket’s pooled on the floor and then rips his shirt off over his head, letting it fall somewhere behind the back of the couch. “God. I wasted the whole day.” He scrubs at his eyes and then flops back down onto the couch. “I was s’pposed to run errands.”

Jordan frowns, says, “You didn’t waste it; you were sick. It’s definitely better that you rested.” He rests his hand on Jordan’s ankle, grinning softly when John doesn’t try to kick him off. “What all did you need?”

To Jordan’s surprise, John flushes a bit when he says, “Birth control, mainly. I dropped some suits off at the dry cleaner’s too that I should pick up.” He sniffles, coughs, and groans a little bit. Once he’s caught his breath and blown his nose, he says, “And I need new road game shit. Toiletries and -- I want a new toothbrush.”

Again, Jordan’s seized with hesitation. “I --” he starts, stopping to clear his throat, to frown at himself. “I can go get that stuff tomorrow morning. If you want.”

John’s scent bursts sweet -- not the spicy irritation that Jordan had been expecting. “Would you?”

From this angle John’s all chin and Jordan can’t help but smile. “Of course. I -- I’m trying really hard not to be overbearing, but like. I’d pretty much do anything for you.”

Even as sick as he is, John can detect the anxiety in Jordan’s voice or expression or body language, if not his scent. He’s good at that. He’s good at _Jordan_. Frowning, he says, “You’re not overbearing.” 

Jordan feels himself shifting, unable to help it, with the urge to stand up and pace. “I worry about that a lot, you know,” he admits. 

He looks down at the discarded plate on John’s coffee table, zeroing in on the crumbs left from his sandwich. He can’t -- he doesn’t want to know what John’s expression is, doesn’t want to see any poker-faced confirmation that he’s right. That he actually _is_ just like all those other alphas that John couldn’t stand. 

“I’m afraid that I’ll be just like those other alphas and you’ll change your mind about me. I don’t want to be too clingy, but I just --” He finally looks at John. “I really like you and I want to take care of you.” 

Again, he looks away, blinking fast, crossing his arms. He jiggles his leg and then -- John’s hand is there, resting on the thick knot of his quadriceps, calming. “Hey,” John says, urging Jordan to look up. “I like you, too.” He shuffles around until he’s lying with his head on Jordan’s thigh. “Pet my hair,” he says.

Jordan obliges, because of course he fucking does. He listens for the soft little purr that John gives, waits for him to gather his thoughts. 

The purring stops, and John speaks: he talks about how his first boyfriend was an alpha, how they fumbled through what they knew wasn’t going to be a real relationship, but “practice” for later. He talks about that boy’s penchant for putting John on his knees, for using commands, for talking over John or completely disregarding what he said. 

Then he talks about his first girlfriend, how she’d listen to him and coddle him, but use her voice on him about the weirdest little things. He talks about that girl’s possessive streak, how she’d yell and cry and wouldn’t allow John to talk to other alphas. 

Jordan pets his hair all the while. 

“You’re not overbearing. You’re considerate and kind and you don’t treat being an alpha as your god-given right to boss people around.”

“Nah, that’s your job, Captain,” Jordan chirps, trying to hide a bashful grin at John’s compliments.

John rolls his eyes. “I’m just _saying_ ,” he says, “You’re a great alpha...a great person. And I’m glad you’re mine. You can be as clingy as you need to be.”

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much, though, right?” Jordan asks, “Before you’re at that point?”

John nods, pressing a kiss to Jordan’s thigh. “Not gonna make you guess.”

Jordan sighs out his relief and bends to kiss John’s cheek. “Okay,” he says, caressing a thumb over the crest of John’s cheekbone. “That’s -- that’ll work.”

With all the conviction he can muster, John says, “It will,” and Jordan’s pretty sure he’s talking about _them_ , not an “it,” which -- 

It’s too soon to be in love, but fuck if Jordan’s heart isn’t trying.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http:onceuponamoonfic.tumblr.com) me some love, y'all <3


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